about planting plans with Toby, I grabbed my things and took Graham with me for a good, long think.
We couldn’t cross the courtyard – it was full of police crawling over the flagstones looking for hairs, bits of fabric, anything that might help in the case against Len Radstock. Instead we edged around the guest wing and along the front of the house. From here we could see the grounds spread out below us. They were lovely, I thought, just right for the dry heat of California. There was something excessively lavish about the idea of transforming it all into a soggy, damp corner of England.
“Why didn’t Baby Sugarcandy just move back to Britain if she wanted an English garden?” I said crossly.
“What?” said Graham.
“All this irrigation and stuff Mum’s planning… It doesn’t seem a very environmentally friendly thing to do. I thought Toby was supposed to be an eco-warrior.”
“He’s upset about his mother,” Graham replied. “I read somewhere that grief can make people behave in all sorts of uncharacteristic ways. I suppose he’s not thinking very logically. Hey! I thought we were going for a swim?”
I was leading him in the opposite direction – away from the pool and down the long drive towards the iron gates.
There were two armed police officers guarding the entrance but they barely noticed us approach. They carried on their conversation, which we caught snatches of as we got nearer.
“Poor Toby!” the policewoman said. Clearly she was as smitten with him as Mum was. “I feel sorry for the guy. It’s tough, coming back to all this.”
Her companion – a stocky, grumpy-looking cop – replied sarcastically, “Yeah, it’s real hard coming back to a mansion that size. I wish I had luck that bad.”
“I don’t think he cares about the house,” the policewoman said. “He told me he was going to sell it right after the funeral.”
My eyebrows shot up. “That’s not what he said to Mum just now,” I muttered to Graham.
“Like I said, his mind must be addled with grief. He’s not thinking straight,” Graham defended him.
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just really good at telling people what they want to hear.”
The policewoman continued. “Yeah. He wants to buy a chunk of rainforest. Protect it from the loggers. Use the money to do something useful, he said.”
“The guy’s a regular saint,” scoffed the grumpy-looking cop.
“Give him a break, will you? He’s nice. One of the good guys.”
“A good guy? In Hollywood? We should have him stuffed and donated to the museum!”
“Excuse me,” I said.
They both looked at us, slightly startled, as if we’d appeared out of thin air. “Hey! You’re the gardener’s kid, aren’t you?” said the man. “What can we do for you?”
“Can we go out please? We want a walk.”
“Sorry kids,” replied the cop. “You’ve got to stay here. Lieutenant Weinburger’s orders. He wants to keep you safe until we have Len Radstock locked up.”
“Oh,” I said. “OK. Well, we’ll just go to the pool then.”
I turned, but before we walked back up the drive I glanced over my shoulder at the road beyond the gates. There was the bend where Sylvia had braked for the raccoon. She’d done it so hard that tyre tracks still marked the surface.
My stomach gave an unexpected lurch. There was something significant: something I’d missed. What was it?
I started to walk, but instead of going along the drive I headed off sideways towards the shade of a copse of trees. Graham followed. When we got there we sat down, and I leant against the rough bark of a pine and closed my eyes. Graham said nothing.
I thought back to when we’d first arrived. I’d been asleep in the car. Fast asleep, not even dreaming. Then when Sylvia braked I’d banged my head. The Sat Nav had kept spouting that address and she’d got really flustered trying to switch the thing off.
Then there was the raccoon. Mum hadn’t seen it, but then she never seemed to
We couldn’t cross the courtyard – it was full of police crawling over the flagstones looking for hairs, bits of fabric, anything that might help in the case against Len Radstock. Instead we edged around the guest wing and along the front of the house. From here we could see the grounds spread out below us. They were lovely, I thought, just right for the dry heat of California. There was something excessively lavish about the idea of transforming it all into a soggy, damp corner of England.
“Why didn’t Baby Sugarcandy just move back to Britain if she wanted an English garden?” I said crossly.
“What?” said Graham.
“All this irrigation and stuff Mum’s planning… It doesn’t seem a very environmentally friendly thing to do. I thought Toby was supposed to be an eco-warrior.”
“He’s upset about his mother,” Graham replied. “I read somewhere that grief can make people behave in all sorts of uncharacteristic ways. I suppose he’s not thinking very logically. Hey! I thought we were going for a swim?”
I was leading him in the opposite direction – away from the pool and down the long drive towards the iron gates.
There were two armed police officers guarding the entrance but they barely noticed us approach. They carried on their conversation, which we caught snatches of as we got nearer.
“Poor Toby!” the policewoman said. Clearly she was as smitten with him as Mum was. “I feel sorry for the guy. It’s tough, coming back to all this.”
Her companion – a stocky, grumpy-looking cop – replied sarcastically, “Yeah, it’s real hard coming back to a mansion that size. I wish I had luck that bad.”
“I don’t think he cares about the house,” the policewoman said. “He told me he was going to sell it right after the funeral.”
My eyebrows shot up. “That’s not what he said to Mum just now,” I muttered to Graham.
“Like I said, his mind must be addled with grief. He’s not thinking straight,” Graham defended him.
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just really good at telling people what they want to hear.”
The policewoman continued. “Yeah. He wants to buy a chunk of rainforest. Protect it from the loggers. Use the money to do something useful, he said.”
“The guy’s a regular saint,” scoffed the grumpy-looking cop.
“Give him a break, will you? He’s nice. One of the good guys.”
“A good guy? In Hollywood? We should have him stuffed and donated to the museum!”
“Excuse me,” I said.
They both looked at us, slightly startled, as if we’d appeared out of thin air. “Hey! You’re the gardener’s kid, aren’t you?” said the man. “What can we do for you?”
“Can we go out please? We want a walk.”
“Sorry kids,” replied the cop. “You’ve got to stay here. Lieutenant Weinburger’s orders. He wants to keep you safe until we have Len Radstock locked up.”
“Oh,” I said. “OK. Well, we’ll just go to the pool then.”
I turned, but before we walked back up the drive I glanced over my shoulder at the road beyond the gates. There was the bend where Sylvia had braked for the raccoon. She’d done it so hard that tyre tracks still marked the surface.
My stomach gave an unexpected lurch. There was something significant: something I’d missed. What was it?
I started to walk, but instead of going along the drive I headed off sideways towards the shade of a copse of trees. Graham followed. When we got there we sat down, and I leant against the rough bark of a pine and closed my eyes. Graham said nothing.
I thought back to when we’d first arrived. I’d been asleep in the car. Fast asleep, not even dreaming. Then when Sylvia braked I’d banged my head. The Sat Nav had kept spouting that address and she’d got really flustered trying to switch the thing off.
Then there was the raccoon. Mum hadn’t seen it, but then she never seemed to
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